Endgame
by Viva la Asphyxiation
Summary: AU - Dark!Mycroft controls the world. Dark!Sherlock is his Inquisitor. John leads the resistance. Rated for dark themes, torture etc...
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

It all seemed to start at the apex of the Afghan war, amid the nightly raids and under the relentless heat of the desert sun. There were whispers; muted rumours spoken softly and with many a furrowed brow. As John sat before his squad's camp fire, he couldn't help but notice the uneasy aura which hung heavily in the air. Something was changing they said. Word from home said that world leaders were suddenly resigning, and there was talk of uniting the world under a single leading body. Information was scarce and incomplete, and the men often found themselves caught up in discussions debating the validity of such rumours. Each new piece of information was spoken about with smiles and heavy sarcasm, each thinking the wild talk to be nothing more than the fabricated mutterings of broken men. The fire crackled loudly in front of him, illuminating the faces of each soldier sat around it. John shook his head and returned to writing his daily report, his once light field journal now a cluttered, cramped collection of the wounds and other afflictions he had treated throughout his service. Occasionally he paused to listen in on the conversations, for he was just as curious as the next man.

''Yeah right, there's no way the bastards in charge of everything would just stand back and follow some other, bigger bastard. Some thing's going on behind our backs, I can smell it.''

One of the younger men sniggered and took a deep swig of his flask. ''All you can smell is your own sweat. It's just what we need out here, init? More fucking conspiracies and not enough deodorant.''

John sighed and returned to his journal. The broken arm he had put into a sling earlier on wouldn't document itself, no matter how worn out he felt.

Two days later, John Watson was shot during an attempt to push the British line forwards, and was pulled from the front line. Three days after, the Afghan war was drawn to a sudden, unexpected close with little to go by in regards to why. A day after that, it was announced that a man named Mycroft Holmes would be uniting the world, putting an end to poverty, oppression and war. A month later, people who started to show doubts began to disappear, and people started questioning why. Fear spread fast and far; those who did show signs of rebelling against Holmes' perfect world simply vanished, their very existence only proved once their loved ones spoke out. It never took long for them to vanish either, nor did it take long for people to stop asking. Resistance groups rapidly sprung up and were shot down with equal haste, for none were organised enough to stand a chance, and only those effected by the sudden, unexplained disappearances of their family members were interested in backing up 'the cause'. Despite the terror, despite humanity completely loosing it's freedom of speech, Mycroft kept to his word and soon the amount of people supporting him dwarfed the members of the population who cried out for justice. Of course, John Watson knew none of this, for during the time of Mycroft Holmes' uprising, he was still abroad in Peshawar battling enteric fever and could not return home in such an unstable state. His sister, Harriet, was one of the first people to vanish, yet he was never told. Two months later, John Watson returned home to England to find himself a stranger in his own country, not being able to understand how or why his only family had disappeared without a trace. Naturally, he began to ask questions...


	2. Chapter 1: Survival 101

The lengthy trip home to London sapped him of what strength he had managed to gather during his recovery, and as his taxi finally came to a halt in front of what looked like a set of abandoned flats, he felt utterly and completely drained. With a neutral expression he paid his driver, not bothering to thank him or wish him a good day, the bitterness of his now invalid social status mixing well with the phantom pain that clawed its way up his leg and the stale taste of the cigarette he held between chapped lips. He had long since stopped smoking, yet the unsteadiness of his hand and the doubts that crept into mind when he least expected it dictated that he give in; it wasn't like his training and near immaculate health would be helping anybody in the near future. Rubbing his eyes with the palm of his left hand and steadying his grip on the cane in his right, he glanced up at what was to be his new home.

It was if the entire building and its surroundings were designed to absorb emotion and leave its inhabitants lifeless and docile. Once stark white walls were now cracked with age and lack of care, heavily attacked with layer upon layer of brightly coloured graffiti, and the steps leading up to the door were chipped and uneven. His suitcase had been delivered well in advance; John had not changed clothes in at least two days and he was starting to show for it. He hadn't shaved once since he started back to England, yet the growth only complimented the bloodshot whites of his eyes and the dirty blonde of his hair. Even if he didn't feel at home, by appearances alone, he was made for a place like this.

That thought alone was enough to plunge him further down the classical route of depression, and with a heavy sigh he started to make his way up the unkempt path, stubbing out his cigarette as he went and binning the tab with slightly more aggression than was strictly necessary. Pain was no excuse for litter. If anything, the interior was worse, with long stretching corridors of monotonous beige and dozens of weak, ill fitting doors. John felt nauseous as he approached the reception desk.

''Hello... I have a permanent flat booked in the name of John Watson.''

The receptionist, not really paying attention for she was far more concerned with picking at her acrylic nails, looked up abruptly. ''Eh? Sorry could you repeat that...''

He increased the grip on his cane, patience wearing thin yet never enough to favour abandoning his manners. ''John Watson? I've been told I have a reservation here.''

Halfway through speaking, the receptionist span around on her chair to face her computer. Even outdated technology such as the machine she was tapping away at looked out of place and somewhat futuristic in its setting. He ignored her rudeness; upsetting the staff on his first day wouldn't bode well with the charitable discharge organisation that had reserved his room to begin with, no matter how much her voice grated against his nerves and the fakeness of her smile irritated him.

''Ah yes, we have your name on our records. Your room number is 77, here is your key...'' She said brightly as handed over a small, somewhat rusty key. He tried his best to ignore the blatant bend of the metal; somebody had been very careless with it in the past. He didn't want to think about the kinds of people that had stayed in his room before him. ''If you need anything...''

''Yeah. It's fine, I'll come find you...?''

''Sharron. Oh, and be careful with the shower, the water pressure here...''

''Oh. Right. Well... I'll keep that in mind. Thank you.''

He turned to walk away, yet the receptionist spoke again. ''Need any help finding your place?''

John laughed breathlessly to himself, the irony hitting him hard. Never had he felt so out of place, so lost, so... alien in his own bloody country. During medical school, he had made plenty of friends straight away and cruised through the years without incident. In Afghanistan, people had relied upon him to think fast and act faster, and he was always around people he could relate with even in some small way. Here... well. ''No thank you, I'll be fine...''

Before the woman could irritate him further, he rounded a corner and found himself met with a flight of stairs. Of course, an old, unloved building such as this wouldn't have lifts, and an organisation dedicated to looking after invalided soldiers would send him to a place with none.

''They could have at least installed hand rails...''


	3. Chapter 2: Subtle Changes

He spent his first night staring out of his dingy flat window, the mere concept of sleeping jerking him wide awake. The view only offered a glimpse of the outside world, a tiny snapshot of what was really out there. The thing that scared him most, even more than his fevered dreams, was the fact that he didn't realise how much his world had actually changed, even if he recognised there was something wrong. By all outward appearances, London _hadn't_ changed. There were still stampedes of oblivious people shopping, rushing to work, going about their normal, secure, everyday lives with only their own personal dramas to entertain them. These people knew nothing of the battlefield, of how this time last year a war was raging in the east. To them, there was no blood, no line in the sand to depict what territory belonged to which side, _nothing_. John didn't know if he would ever be able to walk amongst them and worry over the same trivial things as they did, didn't know if he would ever be able to laugh or cry at the same situations. That alone was enough to make him want to do both simultaneously.

The moon was still high in the sky when his thoughts drifted towards his family, most of which had long passed away. He had never met his father, and his mother had passed away the month before he was due to depart for the scorching sands of Afghanistan. He had but one sister, Harry, yet they had never been even remotely close. His hand hovered above his rooms land-line as he debated whether to call her; would she still hold her grudge against him?

_Oh get a grip, she won't be awake at this hour you dolt. _

With a sigh, his arm dropped to his side uselessly. He doubted she would be pleased to hear from him anyway, the last time they had spoken had ended with a blazing row and Harry had stormed out. It wasn't altogether unexpected, how else could she have reacted to hearing from her brother that her partner was filing for a divorce? John shook his head; maybe if he had waited a little longer, she wouldn't have taken it out on him. Whatever.

[~]

The next day, his eyes burned from lack of rest and he only hesitated three times to call Harry, yet she never answered. The generic woman operator's voice informed him that she was very sorry, and ''the person you are trying to contact has their phone switched off.''. He frowned, wondering how such an animated voice could be so patronising. He replaced the receiver, more than a little bit annoyed. From memory, Harry never left her phone anywhere other than her pocket, and never let it go dead from neglect.

_Maybe she just switched her number or something... It wouldn't be the first time she did it without telling me. Sometimes I bloody wonder if she does it just to get back at me._

Well. If she was going to be awkward after all those years, John was going to pay her a visit in person whether she liked it or not. He stood a little too quickly, instantly regretting doing so as pain wracked his leg. The bloody thing was starting to become more than a hindrance, psychosomatic or not. It was beginning to dictate his life.

[~]

When John finally arrived at her last known address, the first thing that struck him was the absence of her car, which indicated to him that she had gone out. It appeared as though nothing was going right for him lately. It was typical, if it wasn't one thing, it was something else, it was as if the whole world had conspired to make his life a misery.

_Might as well go knock anyway._

Harry's place was larger and much better looked after than the dingy room he had been given. She lived on the totally opposite side of London to his flat too, he had been forced to bear taking the tube, and then after a taxi. The location wasn't bad either; not totally cut off from the world but enough so that the occupants would have more than the typical amount of privacy that London had to offer. John had always been happy with whatever he was given and made the most out of whatever he had, yet as he stood comparing his place with the frequently maintained house in front of him, he couldn't help but feel a little envious.

He didn't even have to knock with his knuckles; there was a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head, just to emphasise the quiet grandeur of the place even more than the solitary rose bush under the window or the neatly trimmed garden. He was very surprised when an elderly woman answered, and did a literal double take as she smiled a him.

''Hello young man, how can I help you?''

John was a little taken aback; had Harry moved house too? ''Hello, I'm John Watson and I'm looking for my sister Harriet. I've just returned to the country, she must have moved house and not told me. Do you know where she might have gone?''

The elderly woman blinked in surprise and froze to the spot. Had he said something or done something wrong? After a second or two, the woman recovered immediately as if nothing had happened (had it?). She smiled warmly and motioned for him to follow her inside. ''I'll see if I have any letters that have come through in her name, deary. You might be able to find out where she has gone if you contact the senders. Oh, but where are my manners? Do come in and have a cup of tea whilst I see if I have any of them hanging around.''

Maybe he was just imagining things, an elderly woman living alone in London must surely have jumpy nerves enough to react in such a way when someone knocked on their door. He smiled back and followed her, taking care to wipe his feet on the doormat. People stood in some disgusting things whilst waiting for the tube. She showed him to her living room, and then made her way slowly to the kitchen. ''Do take a seat and make yourself comfortable, I'll be right back.''

Was it normal behaviour to invite a total stranger into your house randomly? Especially in London? He didn't have a clue. As he sat arguing with himself, a black cat jumped up onto his knee, purring loudly. He scratched behind it's ear, laughing bitterly to himself as he compared his own walking speed to that of the woman who had invited him in. They were startlingly alike, taking into consideration the age difference between them. In the kitchen, the elderly woman picked up her phone and dialled New Scotland Yard, her voice shaking now that she was out of John's earshot. ''Hello, c-can I speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade? Thank you...''

John looked around the room. It was certainly very homey, he couldn't see why Harry would want to leave. Nice home, sizeable garden. Not a lot of noise either. Maybe she had finally patched things up with Clara? He should try her house next, see if she knew where his sister had moved to, or at least see if he could get her new number. Maybe she would even be living with her?

The elderly woman looked quickly around her kitchen to make sure she wasn't overheard, her face pale. ''H-Hello? G-Greg, that man you warned me about, that man you're wanting to question on suspicion of murder? J-John Watson? He showed up here like you said he would, he's in my l-living room... Oh do please hurry... I'm terrified...''


End file.
